


The Ties That Bind

by MsThunderFrost



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Established Relationship, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Good Parent Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Parent Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Running Away
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22826014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: "People linked by destiny will always find each other."Geralt makes a selfish wish of the djinn. Much as he may wish it, Jaskier is not immortal. One day, his love with leave him... and he's desperate for something,anythingto remember him by. The djinn grants him his Child of Desire, a little girl with Jaskier's chocolate brown curls and Geralt's amber eyes. And she is perfect. More than a Witcher -- more thanGeralt-- deserves.This does not change the fact that his fate is still inexorably tied to Ciri's through the Law of Surprise.Geralt leaves his little family to invoke his Law of Surprise, and returns with achild-- Ciri. If he thought that it would be easy raising two young girls abounding in supernatural power... well, he waswrong.Especially when one concocts an utterlybrilliantplan to run away from home.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 26
Kudos: 159





	1. The Law of Surprise

**Author's Note:**

> To help clear up a bit of confusion, this is set during Episode 7-8. Geralt has not yet met Ciri by the end of the first chapter. 
> 
> This is an revamped, updated, and edited version of the first chapter!

It is a selfish wish, but as he thinks of Jaskier -- his cornflower blue eyes hazy as dark, crimson blood froths in his mouth; hurt in a way that Geralt cannot soothe, hurt because he’s only human and humans are frail, weak creatures that wither and wilt like flowers in the sun as weeks turn to months and months to years -- Geralt knows what he would ask of the djinn.

It is a selfish wish, to want to keep Jaskier by his side forever. He’s ashamed to admit that he’s lost track of the years the bard has traveled by his side… all he knows is that when he looks back, Jaskier is there, just a few paces behind, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do when the day comes that he looks back and the bard is _gone_. The passage of time has lost all meaning over the years, the world around him in a constant state of flux while he alone remains steady, unchanging. Years go by in the blink of an eye, memories run together like streams to a river…

It is a selfish wish… but he wants something to remember Jaskier by, when the bard has long since returned to the earth and he is left to walk the path alone, humming the tune to that gods-forsaken _Toss a Coin to Your Witcher_ that _someone_ wrote for him once upon a time…

It is a selfish wish… but the djinn grants it. And a year later, they have _her_ . Their little Hadria, the darkness to Jaskier’s bright yellow _light_ . And she is _perfect_ . More than a Witcher -- no, more than _Geralt_ \-- deserves.

He should’ve known his newfound happiness would be short-lived.

* * *

**[THEN]**

Jaskier had not cried when Geralt had announced his intent to travel to Cintra to invoke his Law of Surprise… alone.

He had not cried when Geralt had knelt down in front of Hadria, the corners of his mouth turned up in a small, almost hesitant smile as he once again entrusted her with the Very Important Job™ of keeping Jaskier out of trouble.

(Once upon a time, he’d gotten upset over the fact that Geralt had so little faith in him that he thought he needed to assign an actual  _ child _ to act as his keeper… he’d soon realized that (1) having a mini-Geralt fussing over him constantly was actually kind of adorable, and (2) his daughter was actually terrifying, and, in a completely hypothetical worst case scenario that would definitely  _ not _ happen, could probably kick some major ass.)

He’d somehow managed to hold it together when Hadria had taken a fistful of the Witcher’s shirt in her little hand in a weak, half-hearted attempt to make him stay just a few minutes longer, and asked how long he’d be gone.

...It all started to fall apart when Geralt’s weak attempt at a smile fell and he’d answered with an honest  _ I don’t know _ .

Hadria’s lower lip had warbled, and Jaskier watched his Witcher steel himself for a full-on fit. Hadria was a  _ good girl _ , so kind and gentle and well-mannered… but at times those… less-favorable bits of Jaskier would shine through, like his flair for the dramatic. He’d actually lost count of the number of times she’d told Geralt she hated him in the midst of one of her not-so-little outbursts. She hated him because he was always  _ leaving _ , and when he left, Jaskier would  _ cry _ , and  _ you’re not supposed to make the people who love you most cry, Daddy. _

And Geralt, absolute wordsmith that he was, had looked so adorably  _ lost _ as he looked between Hadria and Jaskier, trying to formulate some sort of comeback (because what the hell are you supposed to say to  _ that _ \-- the kid was absolutely right, of course, but he hadn’t  _ known _ that Jaskier was crying every time that he left, and he couldn’t fix what he didn’t know was broken). Hadria had the Witcher wrapped around her little finger, and in the end, with nothing more than a pouty lip and a glare, she’d convinced him to return home more frequently…

And Jaskier had resolved to try and hide his sadness from her a bit better. But  _ now… _

_ Now _ he was full-on sobbing, because this was  _ bad _ . Very bad. Geralt  _ would _ choose to invoke his Law of Surprise on the eve of a godsdamned  _ war _ . And he didn’t want to think about the fact that there was a very real chance that Geralt would not be coming home. 

Hadria stared at Geralt for a long while, the Witcher’s calloused fingers rubbing soothing circles into her soft, freckled forearms. “...Okay.” Geralt had visibly relaxed at this, perhaps a moment too soon. “But I want you to promise me something.” 

The Witcher raised one thick, dark eyebrow, “...Alright.” He sounded hesitant, unsure… but not unwilling. 

“No matter how long you’re gone… you won’t forget about us, right?” This was the exact moment that Jaskier lost his battle against the tears. The tears fell fast and hard, like someone had turned on the bloody  _ tap _ .

Geralt stared into her watery, molten amber eyes for a long moment, before dragging her into a bone-crushing hug that stole the breath from her lungs. “Never. I could  _ never _ … You’re everything I ever wished for, my Child of Desire. How could I… I will  _ never _ forget you, no matter what.” 

“Okay.” She said, sounding a bit more confident this time. And then, ever as eloquent as her father, she hugged him back just as tight and ordered brusquely, “Don’t die.”

“I will do my very best.” He assured her.

“Because, if you die, I’ll have to find a way to bring you back to life, just so that I can kill you again for making Da’ cry.” She continued, doing her very best to look menacing. On anyone else it would have worked… but Geralt just  _ laughed _ . A full-on belly laugh that worked to dissolve some of the tension in the room. 

“...Speaking of which, I have a little present for you.” Geralt said, breaking the hug to go and retrieve a box from the corner of the sitting room. The box was almost as tall as she was, with little bits of metal rattling around inside.

Jaskier raised a brow, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his palm as he asked, “...Are you really bribing our child right now, Geralt?” The Witcher looked wholly unapologetic as he handed the box over, grinning when Hadria stumbled a bit beneath the surprising weight. 

“Absolutely not.” That was totally a  _ yes _ .

Hadria tore into the box with all the glee of a child on Christmas morning, and found… sweet mother of the gods, that was a crossbow. Geralt had gotten their ten-year-old a bloody  _ crossbow _ . And now Jaskier was swooning for an entirely  _ different _ reason. He’d had mixed feelings about Geralt training her in the first place -- Witcher blood in her veins be damned, she was  _ ten-years-old _ , and deserved to have an actual childhood. But seeing as neither of them had particularly stellar examples to base her childhood upon… he’d conceded rather easily.

Geralt had been keeping things light, easy. The child was adept with a bow, and was fairly skilled in close-range, hand to hand combat. The Witcher had already gifted her a small, bejewelled dagger for her ninth birthday -- a gift which had been the source of great…  _ contention _ in their household. And that gift had actually been discussed  _ well _ in advance. This…  _ This _ was just… Hadria was going to shoot her godsdamned eye out, and he wouldn’t even be able to cuss Geralt out over it, because the bastard would be halfway across the Continent. 

Hadria was blabbering happily about testing out her new crossbow, and before he could stop her, she’d slung the weapon over her shoulder, grabbed the quiver of shiny metal bolts resting in the bottom of the box, and raced out the door. Now, alone with Geralt, a thousand words lingered on the tip of his tongue…

He settled on, “...Are you planning to tell her that your Law of Surprise is an actual child?” Geralt’s molten amber eyes flit to the side, avoiding Jaskier’s gaze. “Geralt.  _ Geralt. _ You have got to be shitting me -- what the hell is she  _ supposed _ to think when you come back home with a fucking  _ child _ in tow?”

“...I invoked the Law of Surprise long before I ever thought Hadria possible.” His features pinched as he tried to think of the right words to convey the maelstrom of feelings brewing within him. “That little girl has taught me so much. If anything, it’s  _ because _ of her that I know that this is what I have to do.” 

The bard frowned, “Y-You know that that’s not an actual answer, right? She may be half-Witcher, Geralt, but she’s still a child and children get  _ jealous.  _ I just… I don’t want her to be hurt when our family of three suddenly  _ expands _ .”

“It will be fine.” He said, but suddenly he didn’t sound as sure. “Once I come home, I’ll explain everything to her. It might come as a bit of a shock, but… she’ll understand. I know she will.”

Jaskier shivered, a few more tears leaking from his eyes, “You’ll come back, right? You’re not going to --,”

Geralt brushed the bard’s tears away with the pads of his thumbs, “I’m not allowed to die, remember? Because if I die, you’ll cry, and then Hadria will have to bring me back to life just to kill me again.”

And he had laughed, brokenly, “R-Right.”

“I’ll be back before you can miss me.” The Witcher tried.

Jaskier just shook his head, “Impossible. I already miss you.” 

Geralt kissed him then, slow and sweet, and for some reason the Witcher’s uncharacteristic show of tenderness just had him crying harder. He didn’t want Geralt to leave. He didn’t want Geralt to travel to Cintra on the eve of war. He didn’t want to think about the very real possibility of Geralt never coming home. And so he had kissed him back, imprinting the feel of the Witcher’s massive hands on his skin, the scent of his hair, the texture of his armor, into his memory and prayed to whatever god that would listen that Geralt would come home safe and sound.

And he cried. 

* * *

**[NOW]**

It’s a beautiful afternoon -- there’s birdsong in the air, the gentle  _ hiss _ of water coursing through a nearby stream… butterflies twitter by in bright bursts of color, the sky a soft blend of reds and oranges and yellows overhead. Under ordinary circumstances, this would be the kind of day which set the bard’s creative juices in motion. But today is far from ordinary.

Before he’d left for Cintra, Geralt had asked that Jaskier continue Hadria’s training by accompanying her into the forest to hunt for food. When Jaskier had stared at him like he’d grown a second head, he’d conceded that the bard didn’t actually have to  _ hunt _ anything, he just had to make sure that Hadria didn’t put the cart before the horse and try to take down something  _ massive _ … like a bear. 

He’s not exactly sure what he’s supposed to do if their darling little angel tries to agitate a black bear, aside from nobly sacrifice himself in her stead and hope that the beast has its fill of tender, juicy bardling, but…

“Da’! Da’, come quick!” Jaskier is on his feet before he’s even fully registered the fact that his daughter is calling for him. He drops his lute in his haste, the poor wooden instrument making a horrific, musical  _ clank _ as it falls to the ground by his feet. (Please, gods, don’t let it be a bear…)

“What’s the matter?” He asks, as soon as he catches sight of her head of soft, chestnut brown curls. “Are you hurt?” He continues, taking her by the shoulders, praying that the blood splattered across the front of her tunic is not her own. He’s halfway through inspecting her for injuries when he sees  _ it _ .

A full-grown  _ buck _ , dead at her feet.

What. The actual.  _ Hell _ .

“I’m fine, Da’.” She smiles, showing off her bright white canines. “I just can’t lift him. He’s too heavy.”

Jaskier blinks, “Well, yes, I suppose he would be, considering that he’s a  _ full-grown buck _ . You promised me that you’d hunt something  _ small _ , l-like a rabbit, or a fox.” (Not something that could  _ gore _ you with a toss of its head).

Hadria shrugs, “I  _ was _ . But they were too fast. I lost two bolts trying to get a brown hare.” She shows Jaskier one of the bolts in question, the metal shaft bent clean in half. He doesn’t even want to think about how fast her crossbow has to fire to bend metal like that. “But this one… look, I made a head-shot! A one-hit kill.”

He  _ is _ looking at it, thank you very much, and his stomach is churning uneasily from all the blood. He’s not sure why Geralt thought he would be  _ good _ at this, because he’s  _ not _ . He is  _ so _ nauseous right now, it’s not even funny.

“Do you think that Daddy will be impressed?” She asks.

“Oh, I’m certain he’ll have  _ something _ to say about you taking down a beast nearly four times your size…” he cannot guarantee that it will be  _ good _ \-- most likely it’ll be a strange combination of pride, and an overwhelming urge to keep her from  _ ever doing that again _ . He knows, because that is  _ exactly _ how he feels in that moment.

She looks at him expectantly, “Do you think that you’ll be able to help me carry him back?”

“My sweet… sweet little turtledove,” cornflower blue eyes meet molten amber. “If I try to lift this buck, I may be able to budge it an inch… two if we’re lucky… and then I will not be moving for a very,  _ very _ long time.”

Hadria puffs out her little cheeks, “That nice merchant who lives on the other side of the stream has a wagon. I’m sure he’d be willing to offer us his assistance if we agree to share some of the meat.” She motions to the buck, “There’s more than enough to share. It’ll rot before the two of us finish it all.”

“That’s probably for the best.” He nods, doing his best to look anywhere but at the buck. “I’ll just stay here with the… err,  _ carcass _ .”

The ten-year-old detaches the bejewelled dagger from her belt, pressing the glittering hilt into Jaskier’s unprepared hands. “Don’t let anything eat you while I’m gone, okay Da’? I’ll be back before you can miss me!”

Well, weren’t those famous last words? He almost makes her stay behind on principle, because Geralt had told him the same and he’d been gone for almost a year now. Instead, he takes one of her little wrists, smoothing his thumb over her pulse point, and allows himself a moment to appreciate what he’d never thought he would have.

He’d been surprised when Geralt had finally told him what it was that he wished for. He hadn’t thought that that would be something that Geralt would have wanted… or rather, something that Geralt would have wanted with  _ him _ . But then Hadria had come… and Jaskier would never admit it out loud, but he’d always thought, somehow, someway, that the djinn had granted his greatest wish as well. 

Even as the years went on and he became less and less able to follow his Witcher on his many grand adventures, he had a little piece of his Witcher forever by his side. The months spent waiting for Geralt’s inevitable return never felt so lonely with Hadria around to keep him company. Though her recklessness is sure to do him in one of these days (he casts a side-eyed glance at the fallen buck), as long as she comes home to him, safe and sound, he wouldn’t change a thing about her. 

“ _ Da’ _ .” Her sweet, full lips jut out into an adorable pout. “You’re staring at me. Do I have blood on my face or something?” Jaskier cannot help but laugh as she manages to smear blood on her clean cheek.

“No, no… I was just thinking about how utterly adorable you are.” Hadria flushes bright red, her amber eyes growing wide as her mouth opens and closes several times in quick succession. Jaskier pinches her clean cheek, “And don’t you try to deny it, either. There’s only room for one person in this family who can’t take a compliment.”

“‘m a princess.  _ Of course _ I’m adorable.” She says, batting at his hand. “I have to go now if I want to find the farm before dark. A-Are you sure you’ll be okay? Remember, if it’s bigger than you, puff out your chest and try to make yourself look large and intimidating. If it’s smaller… aim for the throat.”

He grimaces, “Yes… thank you for that.”

“Like I said, I’ll be back before you can miss me!” Her hand slips free of his, and then she’s running, “Tonight, we eat like Kings!”

He settles back against a nearby tree, wishing that he hadn’t dropped his lute so far away. Oh well… it shouldn’t be too long until Hadria returns. It’s a rather nice afternoon, perhaps it would be best spent taking a nap in the shade…

And as he drifts off into the tender embrace of unconsciousness… the Child of Surprise awakens.


	2. An Unfortunate Reunion

Geralt tenses when he hears the soft  _ crunch _ of leaves in the distance. Ciri must’ve noticed, because she tilts her head back to look at him through a veil of tears, a half-formed sentence on her lips -- he shakes his head, motioning for her to stay  _ quiet _ as the dying rays of sun catch on the barest glint of metal amidst the treeline.  _ Fuck _ .

“Don’t. Move.” His tone brokers no room for argument, and Ciri is too tired to do anything but obey. 

It takes him a moment to realize exactly  _ who _ it is coming through the clearing. But as soon as he sees her, the spark of anxiety that had been brewing in his gut dies away. As far as he can tell, though his daughter has picked up on the scent of old blood from his leg wound, she’s not yet wrapped her head around the fact that he’s not some wounded animal, lying in wait, ready to make one last-ditch effort to save its own hide…

Hadria has yet to raise her crossbow, but it is there, by her side, fully loaded… He has an inkling that she’s been hunting, and is likely on her way to ask the merchant who lived on the other side of the forest to borrow his wagon to bring in her haul. The same wagon which he had been riding in for… actually, he wasn’t sure. The pain- and poison-induced delirium had made it rather easy for him to lose track of time. 

How long had it taken for him to make it back home?

“Dad?!” Hadria’s little face scrunches as she’s hit with the stench of old blood from his wounded leg, and even from across the clearing, he can  _ see _ the moment her eyes find Ciri. In a flash, she’s taken aim at the back of Ciri’s head.

“Hadria!” He’s not panicking. He’s  _ definitely _ not panicking. He knows his daughter, knows she  _ knows better _ \-- she will stand down. “Hadria, put your weapon  _ down _ . I know how this looks, but she’s not the enemy. She didn’t --,”

“You’re  _ bleeding _ ,” Hadria says, her voice broken. As if Geralt himself had not realized this.

“...Yes.” Geralt concedes after a moment’s hesitation. “Look, just come  _ here _ , alright? I’m  _ trying _ to tell you that I’m fine… but maybe it’ll be easier if you can see and feel for yourself.”

Hadria doesn’t budge. “Who is she?”

“ _ Hadria _ .” Slowly, he releases Ciri, guiding the child behind the cover of his broad back. “You’re shaking, little one.” It takes a considerable amount of effort, but he drops into a low squat and opens his arms, “ _ Come here _ . I promise that everything is alright now.”

Hadria hesitates a moment longer, before finally,  _ finally _ lowering her weapon. It slips from her hands, and then she takes off running, catapulting herself into Geralt’s waiting arms with enough force to nearly take the Witcher to the ground. Even in her excitement, she’s careful to avoid his wounded leg… even when it is clear that Geralt has no such reservations, and lifts the seventy-five pound child into the air with ease.

Hadria squirms in his arms, taking quite a while to settle down. Eventually, she deflates, “D-Daddy…”

“Yes, darling.” He motions for Ciri to follow, and starts off through the forest in the direction of their cabin, picking up Hadria’s crossbow along the way. Hadria doesn’t answer immediately, choosing instead to tug on Geralt’s hair.

He thinks she’s gearing up to say something sentimental, to tell him how much she missed him or to chew him out over his not-so-little wound. Instead, she says, “I killed a buck.”

Geralt blinks, “A buck?”

“...a male, adult deer, Daddy.” She looks at him, wholly unimpressed, and Geralt is sorely tempted to tell her that he  _ knows _ what a godsdamned  _ buck _ is, thank you. He’s slightly  _ less _ clear on how she managed to  _ kill _ one.

“And where is it now?” Just as he’d expected, she’d been on her way to borrow the merchant’s wagon in an effort to try and bring the dead deer back home. “C’mon… let’s go before Jaskier starts hyperventilating at the sight of all that blood.” 

“...S-So, this is your daughter?” It’s the first thing Ciri had said since Hadria had arrived, and if the sharp  _ tug _ on his hair is any indication, Hadria is unmoved.

“Yes.” He says, “Hadria, say hello.” Silence. “ _ Hadria. _ ”

If looks could kill… “Hello strange person who definitely  _ didn’t _ stab my Daddy in the leg.”

A sigh, “She’s not usually… like  _ this _ .” Hadria tugs on his hair again, and he grunts, shifting her just a bit so that her weight is balanced more evenly on his injured side. His little girl is pouting, clinging to him in an adorably possessive way that makes his heart swell despite the fact that she is behaving reprehensibly.

And Ciri, bless her heart, keeps trying, “Um… h-how old is she?”

Hadria narrows her eyes at her, before grumbling, “‘m ten. I’ll be eleven in a fortnight.” And Geralt’s heart pulls a  _ hard _ stop because he definitely,  _ definitely _ forgot about that. And Hadria notices, because  _ of course _ she does. “It’s okay if you forgot, Daddy. I know that you’re not good with dates.”

“It’s  _ not _ okay, Hadria.” Fuck, that’s what…  _ three _ years he’d forgotten now? Soon enough, the only thing his daughter is going to remember about him are all the important milestones that he missed along the way…

It doesn’t take them long to reach the clearing. His lips quirk into a small smile when he sees Jaskier lying there, lost in a light doze, Hadria’s glittering dagger within easy reach, just in case. Hadria wiggles her way out of his arms, calling Jaskier’s name with all of the exuberance of a child that had not yet learned the wonders of volume control. The bard jumps, cornflower blue eyes blinking open just in time to catch a blur of movement as Hadria  _ launches _ herself at his stomach. She’s babbling excitedly, words tumbling over her lips too fast to be intelligible --

She must’ve said  _ something _ to make the bard panic, because his drowsy, floral scent grows sharp with distress. His arm curls around Hadria’s middle, the barest hint of shining steel clutched tight between his fingers, as he turns and… His eyes grow almost comically wide when he sees Geralt, battered and bloody, but finally,  _ finally _ home… Tears well in his eyes as he begins to climb to his feet, only to be stopped by a hard  _ yank _ from Hadria, who points to the girl half-hiding behind Geralt and whisper-yells ‘witch’. Jaskier blinks… and then he frowns.

“Dammit, Geralt,” he takes Hadria’s hand, running a soothing finger over her blistered knuckles, “for the love of the gods,  _ please _ do not tell me that you still haven’t told your daughter who that is?”

Geralt huffs, “I’m sorry, I was a  _ bit _ preoccupied with the fact that Hadria had decided to  _ kill on sight _ .” And then he sighs, “Glad to be home, by the way. Thank you for that exceedingly  _ warm _ welcome.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, “Welcome home, you overgrown manchild. I swear to -- if you had just  _ talked to your child _ before you left, none of this would have happened.” He turns to Hadria, “‘Ria, sweetie, your Daddy has some things he needs to explain to you. But I promise, in the meantime, the nice girl won’t hurt you, or me, or Daddy. Okay?”

Hadria glares at Ciri, “That’s right. Because I’ll protect you, Da’.” She says, lower lip jutting out in an adorable pout.

Jaskier sighs, “Close enough.” And then, “How about you and Daddy carry this buck back to the cabin, yeah? I’m sure we’ll all feel better after we have some hot food in our bellies.” He gives her hand a reassuring squeeze, then gently leads her in the direction of the dead deer.

Ciri isn’t sure whether she should offer to help (though she’s not sure how much help she would actually be -- that beast is  _ massive _ , and while she’d become a  _ bit _ more fit from all the running she’d been doing since the fall of Cintra, her upper body strength is near nonexistent), but Jaskier seems more than happy to stand back and let Geralt and Hadria at it… and so she resolves to watch, as well.

Geralt instructs the child to take a wide-legged stance -- keeping her shoulders in line with her hips as she bends her knees. The stance causes more blood to ooze from his leg wound, but he pays it no mind, grabbing the buck’s head and front legs while Hadria grabs the back. He counts backwards from three, and then… Ciri’s eyes widen as this child, stick-thin and  _ frail _ , hefts her half of the buck into the air with little more than a soft  _ grunt _ . Geralt  _ has _ to be holding the majority of the weight. There’s absolutely no way that --

“S-Should we… help them?” She asks, uncertain. Jaskier turns to her, a small smile on his face.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” He says, as if they both hadn’t just watched a wounded man and a ten-year-old lift a buck clean off the ground and start to march it through the forest. “She’s going easy on him. She has more than half of its weight on her shoulders there.” He continues, “If she needs him to take more, she’ll say so.”

“H- _ How _ ?” Jaskier shrugs. He doesn’t really understand what makes Hadria the way she is… aside from the fact that she’s half-Witcher, which is apparent just from a casual glance. He doesn’t  _ need _ to understand. 

She’s his little princess -- inexplicable mutations or no, he’d love her anyway.

* * *

Two hours later, Geralt comes downstairs to find Jaskier and Ciri seated at the table, about halfway through their own dinner. There are two untouched bowls of stew on the table, one at the seat nearest the stove, where Hadria usually sits, and one to the left of Jaskier, where Geralt usually sits. 

Jaskier and Ciri had been talking, and though he can hear much of the conversation long before he arrives in the kitchen, he can’t really discern what it is that they were talking  _ about _ . It seems his bard has been able to tease a smile or two out of the princess, which is good, but it’s difficult to focus on as he takes a seat at the table and stares at the untouched bowl of stew across from his own. An awkward silence falls as he sits with a soft huff and begins to eat, valiantly ignoring the screaming child in the midst of a full-blown tantrum upstairs.

“...I take it that your talk didn’t go well.” Jaskier says -- he almost feels bad, forcing (he snickers a bit at that -- as if he could force Geralt to do  _ anything _ ) Geralt to talk to Hadria, having been home for less than six hours.

“Hmm,” Geralt glares at him, his pretty amber eyes rimmed with red. Oh, it went  _ really _ bad, then.

“I  _ did _ try to warn you. I  _ told _ you that you should have talked to her before you left.” He sighs, abandoning his half-eaten dinner to grab Hadria’s bowl of stew. He flinches, almost dropping the bowl, when something crashes and  _ shatters _ upstairs. “Gods… Geralt, what the fuck did you  _ say _ to her?”

Geralt’s eye twitches, his entire body tense… but he says nothing. Just stares straight ahead as he continues to shovel food into his mouth. It doesn’t even look like he’s  _ chewing _ . Ciri looks between the two of them uncertainly, the tension in the air making her throat close up and her stomach churn uneasily.

“I’ll talk to her, okay?” Jaskier says, making sure he has a firmer grip on the bowl this time before lifting it. He presses a kiss to Geralt’s sweat-damp hair, “You know that she loves you. She’s just… in shock. That’s all.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier barely resists the urge to roll his eyes… but it doesn’t escape his notice that the other relaxes a bit, seeming to  _ breathe _ for the first time since coming downstairs. 

Jaskier isn’t sure what to expect when he makes it upstairs. He doesn’t bother knocking -- Hadria’s bedroom door is open, anyhow. He steps inside the child’s room to find it… utterly  _ wrecked _ . There are bits of broken glass on the floor, the shattered remnants of a broken mirror, discarded clothes and linens scattered about, a desk chair overturned in the corner of the room… and no sign of Hadria. Until he catches sight of a set of five little toes peeking out from underneath her bed. Smiling, he bends down to gently drag his fingers over the bottom of her bare foot…

Hadria lets out a startled little yip, dragging her foot further underneath the bed. A second later, he can barely make out the outline of her face, her amber eyes glistening in the darkness. She studies him carefully for a moment, her lower lip warbling as she sniffles, but makes no move to climb out from underneath the bed. Realizing what it is that he has to do, he sets the bowl of stew on her end table, before lowering himself onto the floor so that he’s resting on his belly. Now that he can see her better, it’s clear as day that she’s sobbing, and the bard feels his heart  _ shatter _ .

“W-Why doesn’t Daddy love me?” She asks, her voice weak. “Am I… Am I not g-good enough? Or d-did… Did I do something bad?” She sobs, breath coming faster as she teeters on the brink of another fit. “Is that why h-he… why he wanted a new daughter?” 

“Hadria… no, no,  _ of course not _ . I mean, we’re going to have to talk about you breaking that vase, but princess, please don’t  _ ever _ think that you’re not good enough, or that you could ever do anything to make me or your Daddy not love you anymore.” Jaskier says, voice firm.

“I d-don’t want to share him.” She continues, scrubbing at her eyes with one long, dark sleeve. “He just came back. I w-want… want…” She huffs in frustration, “But all he cares about is  _ her _ .”

Jaskier shakes his head, “That’s not true. He cares about you very much.” And then, softer, “He loves you.”

“N-No he doesn’t.” Hadria says, “Maybe I s-should just leave. Go somewhere f-far away, where he won’t have to worry about me anymore. Then he could have his perfect family with  _ Ciri _ a-and --,”

The bard frowns, “Hey, now. Don’t even talk like that. You’re not going anywhere.” He says, taking her hand.

“If he had her, why did he need me?” Hadria wails. Jaskier squeezes her hand and lets her cry it out. Absently, he wonders what the child could have said that was so catastrophic as to make  _ Geralt _ cry… but then, big softie that he is, all she probably had to say was that she didn’t think he loved her to get the faucet flowing.

“Because you are his Child of Desire, the product of a very special wish. You are everything he ever wanted -- everything he  _ could _ have ever wanted.” He reminds her. “You weren’t a  _ need _ , Hadria. We need food, and shelter, and coin… You were a  _ want _ , a  _ desire _ . There’s an important distinction.”

The child shifts a bit, and in the new position he can see that she’s changed from her bloodied tunic into one of Geralt’s shirts. She’s seeking out comfort in Geralt’s scent and that’s absolutely adorable. “But he  _ needs _ to protect Ciri.” She pouts.

“Princess,” Jaskier stares into her watery eyes, “have you already forgotten that you single-handedly  _ killed a full-grown buck _ ? You don’t need to be protected. Or, at least, not in the same way that a princess whose been sheltered her entire life would need to be.”

Another sniffle, “I don’t like her.”

Jaskier nods, “You don’t have to. I’m just asking that you  _ try _ and get along with her for the time being. Can you do that for me?”

Hadria doesn’t answer. Instead, she slides out from underneath the bed, rubbing at her swollen eyes with the heels of her palms. Jaskier rolls over into a sitting position, allowing the child to clamber up onto his lap, throwing her arms around his midsection and burying her face in the soft fabric of his shirt. He rubs her back as she cries out the last of her tears, before presenting her the bowl of stew. She eats a little, unable to stomach much on top of all the mucus in her belly, but he’s grateful for each tiny bite.

“Now, do you want to talk about the conversation you had with Daddy?” She shakes her head ‘no’. “Okay. I won’t make you talk about it.” She hugs him a little tighter. “On the condition that you answer one question. Do you have something that you need to apologize to him for?”

A stuttering inhale, followed by a nod. “...Y-Yeah.”

“Okay.” He nods, “I know that you’re still pretty upset, so how about this? Tomorrow, we’ll make him a special “I’m Sorry” breakfast. You and Ciri can go foraging for berries -- it’ll be a good chance for you to get to know each other, and maybe you can teach her a few things.”

The proposition seems to physically  _ pain _ her, but she nods, nonetheless. “Yeah, okay. I can… I’ll do that.” And then she looks a bit more uncertain, “Y-You’re sure that Daddy isn’t trying to replace me?”

“I’m positive, princess.” Jaskier says, “Your Daddy has missed you  _ so _ much, all this time… I’m sure he’s very upset that your reunion went south so quickly.” A dark flush spreads across her cheeks as she lowers her eyes.

“...I’m sorry.” She whispers.

Jaskier brushes her deep brown hair away from her face, “Tell him that tomorrow, okay?”

“Mmm…” After ten years, Jaskier has learned the tells of a sleepy child, and while he cannot carry her anymore, he’s able to maneuver her into her bed with relative ease. As he’s tucking her in, her hand curls around his wrist, squeezing just tight enough to capture his attention. “Stay with me? Till I fall asleep?”

“Of course.” He kneels beside the bed, careful to avoid the shattered glass on the floor. “How about a bedtime story? I know a very special one about a pretty little princess named Hadria.” His daughter gives a soft smile, unable to stifle a soft giggle, “It started a long, long time ago, with a nasty djinn and a Witcher that couldn’t sleep…”


	3. Those Things I Cannot Say

Jaskier returns once he’s certain that Hadria is asleep.

Geralt is seated in front of their fireplace, lost in a state of deep meditation. Jaskier isn’t certain that the Witcher is aware of his return－if he  _ is _ aware, then he makes no move to acknowledge the bard’s presence－but, at the moment, the lack of reception is the least of his concerns. The wound on Geralt’s thigh looks absolutely  _ horrendous _ . He’d be surprised if it wasn’t already infected, considering that the blood oozing from the bite is a stomach-churning  _ black _ . With a sigh, he sets about filling a small basin with hot water and brings it, along with a small vial of tea tree oil, a roll of fresh bandages, and a towel, over to Geralt.

His trousers are beyond repair, so Jaskier doesn’t feel bad about cutting a slit down the side so that he might have better access to Geralt’s wound. Though he knows Geralt would grit his teeth and bear it, should he ask him to strip, his Witcher is in enough pain－he doesn’t want to be the cause of more. Once his leg is bared, Jaskier dips the towel in the water and begins to dab along the edge of the wound, cleaning out days’ worth of debris that had built up along his travels. Geralt remains silent, but Jaskier knows he is no longer meditating. Instead, he is watching Jaskier out of the corner of his eye. The orange-yellow firelight illuminates the fresh tear-stains on his cheeks.

He doesn’t expect Geralt to be the first to speak, so he’s pleasantly surprised when the Witcher mumbles, “...Is she okay?” He seems to be much calmer now, but there is a definite aura of uncertainty about him that makes the bard’s chest ache.

“She will be.” He says. Geralt hums softly, turning his gaze back toward the fire. “I apologize, but this will sting quite a bit. One, two－,” before he even reaches three, he upends the bottle of tea tree oil on Geralt’s open wound. He hisses obscenities between gritted teeth, but remains stubbornly still.

There’s a long stretch of silence as the horrible  _ burn _ in Geralt’s leg fades into oblivion. Jaskier doesn’t push, instead taking the opportunity to wrap Geralt’s leg properly. He’s on the last pass of the bandage when Geralt murmurs, “I heard what she said… about running away.”

Jaskier nibbles his bottom lip, thoughtful. “She won’t.” He decides. “She’s… incredibly hurt right now. She thinks that you’re trying to replace her－or worse, that you never actually wanted her, and all she’s ever been is some sort of stand-in for Ciri.” There is no bite, no accusation in his words, and yet they still manage to cut the Witcher to the quick. “And yet… do you know what she did, after your fight?”

“Hmm,” heavy-lidded amber eyes watch as Jaskier bends to press a soft kiss to his newly-bandaged wound. He can almost hear the bard telling Hadria  _ ‘kisses make everything better’ _ after the little girl ended up with her hundredth injury of the week…

(Which, amazingly, isn’t that great of an exaggeration. Hadria takes childhood clumsiness to a whole new, terrifying level－at five-years-old, she’d already fallen out of enough trees to start giving Jaskier gray hairs. When Geralt had first taken her to winter at Kaer Morhen at seven-years-old, she’d ended up with a concussion after slipping and whacking her head against the stone flooring whilst Lambert was teaching her weapons forms. (He can still remember the look on Lambert’s face when the kid bounded back to her feet like a fucking jackrabbit, bloody forehead and all, and insisted they continue…). While fishing, she’d somehow managed to fall into the stream barefoot and slice her foot open on some nasty-looking rocks－and then proceeded to wait  _ several hours _ to mention it to Jaskier in passing over dinner. And the list goes on…)

It takes him a minute to realize that Jaskier is still speaking, and he catches the tail-end of the bard’s sentence. “...one of the shirts out of your satchel and put it on, before barricading herself under her bed.”

Geralt makes a choked sound, halfway between a snort and a sob. “She’ll need a bath.”

“She was practically doused in deer innards earlier today, Geralt. She was  _ always _ going to need a bath.” Jaskier counters, nonplussed. “The  _ point _ is that she loves your emotionally repressed ass, and you love her, and tomorrow she and Ciri are going to go foraging for berries to make you a very special breakfast－and you’re going to be a good Daddy and  _ eat it all. _ ”

Geralt’s stomach rumbles at the mere mention of food, and he finds his mind drifting to the bowl of strew he’d abandoned in the kitchen after shoveling down a few tasteless spoonfuls. His mind occupied with thoughts of hunger and  _ sleep _ , it takes him a minute to process what Jaskier said. “Wait… What was that about Ciri and Hadria foraging tomorrow?”

Jaskier shrugs, “I suggested that Hadria take her foraging tomorrow morning, as a method of bonding.” He says, “And before you say anything－I know that it’s dangerous, but Hadria’s a good kid. She’s not the type to stand by and let someone get hurt just because of a grudge.”

“I know that. It’s just…” Jaskier hadn’t  _ seen _ what had become of Cintra following the invasion. He didn’t understand the horrors that Nilfgaard was capable of. One poor decision, even regarding something as stupid as berries, could cost him  _ both _ girls. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, curling his fingers underneath the Witcher’s chin to tilt his face back toward his own, “why do you think I’m telling you about it, instead of leaving it as a surprise?”

Geralt studies his face carefully, “To make sure that I’m prepared for the possibility of choking to death attempting to eat Hadria’s cooking?” It sounds like a joke, but it’s really not. Their little angel is talented at a great many things－cooking is not one of them. 

“No,” he laughs a bit, then considers, “Well, actually… that’s not a half bad idea. But it’s not what I had in mind, either.” He tucks a stray lock of hair behind Geralt’s ear, murmuring, “It’s for  _ your _ peace of mind. So that you’ll know where they are, and be able to reach them if they have need of you.”

“Oh,” his voice is soft, shaky. 

Jaskier offers him a soft smile, “Why don’t you head upstairs and tuck Hadria in? I think you’ll feel better if you do.” At Geralt’s apparent reluctance, he adds, “Darling, that kid sleeps like a rock. Nothing, short of setting her bedroom on fire, is going to wake her now. I promise you, everything will be fine.”

“Hmm,” Geralt folds far too easily. For the first time, he  _ looks _ as tired as he must feel. Nevertheless, he carefully ambles to his feet, placing a heavy hand on Jaskier’s head as he weaves around him to head upstairs. 

He doesn’t head to Hadria’s room immediately. Instead, he goes to the opposite end of the hall, to the room he shares with Jaskier, to change out of his ruined trousers. He tosses his torn-up leathers in the corner, knowing that Jaskier will bitch but almost certain his mate will cut him some slack, just this once… He pulls out a pair of soft cotton slacks and struggles valiantly to lift his leg high enough to slide them on. Alone in their bedroom, he can allow himself to admit, just this once, that he  _ may have _ (definitely) overdone it－fuck, he’s going to have to cut back for a little while, if he wants that bite wound to heal properly.

He used to be able to say that he entered into every contract prepared to die, but… when he’d collapsed in that forest, black blood oozing from his leg as poison coursed through his aching body… all he could see was Hadria. Hadria, with tears in her big golden eyes, telling him that he wasn’t allowed to die because that would make Jaskier cry and  _ you’re not supposed to hurt the people who love you most _ . Hadria, who couldn’t just  _ tell _ him how scared she was every time he left home without them. Putting the fear and sorrow on someone else’s shoulders made it more palatable, made it easier for her to understand and process. 

Fuck, they were too alike for their own good. No wonder their fights always ended with someone crying－usually Hadria, though he’d come close on a few occasions. The kid is a walking disaster when it comes to processing complex emotions, but gods above, does she  _ try _ .

His darling angel is  _ immensely _ trying.

Appropriately dressed, he makes for Hadria’s room. The door stands open, and there is a pleasantly cool breeze filtering in from the window above her desk. There’s the soft sound of papers fluttering－sheet music that Jaskier had meticulously written out for her, weighed down by a tiny, child-sized violin－accompanied by soft, barely-there snores. It seems that Jaskier had taken a few moments to clean up after her little tantrum, as the room is once again spotless… Golden eyes drift to the little bed in the corner where Hadria lay, one tiny leg dangling off the side of the feather-filled mattress, her fur blanket in a messy heap upon the floor. 

He stifles a laugh, making his way inside (careful to avoid stepping on Ciri, who is laid out on a cot just inside the door, utterly dead to the world). He grabs the blanket, nudging Hadria’s leg back onto the mattress and wrapping her up in a tight little cocoon. She groans, brows furrowing, and he pauses, suddenly fearful that he’d woken her－a tiny hand escapes the blanket cocoon, grabbing his fingers tight enough that an ordinary human’s would likely break. Geralt doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe… just waits. It doesn’t take long.

“Da...ddy?” Her eyes don’t open. In fact, he’s confident that she’s still asleep. He tests her grip, and her fingers slacken before she lets out the most heart-wrenching mewl he’s ever heard.

He sits down, carefully, beside her bed, adjusting her grip carefully so that they’re almost holding hands. “Shh,” With his free hand, he reaches up, smoothing away the worry lines in her brow. “Sleep, little one. I’m right here.”

When Jaskier goes to retire an hour or so later, he’s a bit worried to find his Witcher decidedly absent from their bed. That being said, it doesn’t take him long to track his wayward lover down. Geralt is asleep in the kids’ room, slumped over the side of Hadria’s bed, his head of silver-white hair resting on the mattress just beside her arm. But that’s not what makes Jaskier taste  _ blood _ from how hard he’s clamping down on his lower lip to try and stifle his squeal of delight…

_ They’re holding hands. _ Too cute!!

* * *

“Da’...” Hadria whines as Jaskier wraps a woolen scarf tight around her neck. “It’s not even that cold out! Is all of this  _ really _ necessary?” 

“Not even that… Hadria, darling, there is frost on the ground. It might be spring, but it’s still cold.” He says, adjusting her coat until the soft linen lays flat over her tunic and leggings. “You may be big enough to wield a crossbow, but you’re still my little girl. And I won’t see you sick because you’re not properly bundled up to face the elements.”

Ciri watches the exchange plaintively, tugging on the frayed hem of her cloak. She can’t help the mild irritation that rises within her at the way Hadria treats such finely tailored articles of clothing… Her own cloak, a gift from her grandmother, was in tatters through no fault of her own, and she loved it desperately. It served as a last reminder of what once was, and now it was in ruins, just like Cintra. And yet here is this girl, lavished in  _ expensive _ gifts from her father, dismissing them without care. She bites her tongue and listens to them squabble a while longer, before finally, Jaskier turns his attention to her. Or, more specifically, to her  _ feet _ .

“And you, darling… those shoes must be absolute murder on your poor feet.” Ciri’s eyes drift down to her feet, to the shoes that had once belonged to that poor, dwarvish servant. “I’m sure Hadria has a spare pair of boots that’ll fit you. Just a moment－,”

Ciri shakes her head, “Please… I’ve already caused enough trouble－,”

And Hadria interjects with, “What makes you think my good leather hunting boots would fit her clumsy feet?” Ciri flinches, mouth snapping shut with an audible  _ clack _ . Jaskier frowns.

“Hadria,” the little girl tilts her chin up at him defiantly. Jaskier takes a deep breath, reminding himself not to yell－nothing good ever came from  _ yelling _ . “ _ Hadria _ , that was absolutely uncalled for. Apologize to Ciri.” Silence. Jaskier can literally feel his patience beginning to ebb away. “ _ Now _ , Hadria.”

Hadria glares at him, clearly not inclined to back down. “Since she’s so bloody special,  _ here _ .” She bends down, the scarf unravelling from around her neck as she yanks her own boots off. “A gift for the princess.” She shoves the boots at Ciri’s chest, causing her to stumble back a few paces.

“Hadria!” The ten-year-old flinches－that was definitely a yell.

Ciri, gingerly, attempts to hand the boots back, “I don’t want the shoes off of your feet.”

“What, they’re not good enough for you?” Hadria sneers, taking a step back. She collides roughly with Geralt’s chest; even without turning around to face him, she knows that he is far from happy. 

“...Is there a problem, Hadria?” He asks. From the tone of his voice, it’s clear that he’s not actually looking for an answer. He’d probably heard Jaskier yelling and assumed the worst－because of course he would. Now that they have Ciri,  _ of course _ everything would default to being  _ her _ fault.

Who would blame the princess when the pauper makes such a pretty little scapegoat?

They hadn’t even asked her if she would share her room, her clothes…  _ anything _ . There was just this… assumption that she’d be ready and willing to turn her entire life upside-down for a girl she’d never even met. And trying to express her displeasure at the situation just led to fights with her parents. Jaskier had  _ never _ yelled at her before. He was the calm, level-headed one, always ready to talk a situation down before it spiraled out of control. Hadria’s lower lip warbles, tears burning in the corners of her eyes as her chest grows tight with a flurry of emotion. But she refuses to cry in front of a runaway princess-witch- _ whatever _ . Or stick around long enough for Geralt to sniff out the impending waterworks.

“Nothing.” She hisses, storming past Geralt to take the backdoor in their kitchen. “I’m going to collect some freaking berries.” It’s only then that Geralt notices the current state of her feet.

“You should really put some shoes on before you－,” the door slams shut mid-sentence, “And she’s gone.” He rolls his eyes－a little fond, but mostly exasperated. 

Jaskier pinches the bridge of his nose, silently counting backwards from ten. Then he forces a smile and grabs a spare set of shoes for Ciri, “I hate to ask this of you, darling, but would you mind tracking down that hard-headed little girl before she ends up getting herself hurt? She tends to get a bit… clumsy when she’s upset.” Jaskier says.

“S-Sure.” Ciri sounds a bit uncertain. “She couldn’t have gone far, right?”

Jaskier and Geralt share a look, and Jaskier’s smile falters a bit as he forces a soft, “Right.”

It takes Ciri almost an hour to track Hadria down－not because the ten-year-old had wandered particularly far, but because she’d been leaving little red-herrings all over the damned forest. She’d shed her coat and scarf about a half-mile away from the cabin, leaving the expensive material to soak up water in the nearby stream. Ciri had thought it would be smart to follow along upstream, in the hopes she’d stumble across more clues to Hadria’s whereabouts along the way, but her efforts had been fruitless. It was only once she’d circled back around to the cabin that she realized Hadria had never left what could effectively be considered the backyard. She’d climbed one of the tremendous elm trees, and was happily munching on a handful of bluish-purple berries…

Even from her position on the ground, she can see that the girl’s leggings are torn. Her knee is scratched and bleeding, though she doesn’t seem to mind it. She’s just about to ask if Hadria plans of spending the rest of the day in the clouds, when the bag of berries comes tumbling out of the tree, very narrowly missing clocking her on the head. She shrieks, promptly dropping Hadria’s shoes, and the little girl starts giggling like mad, holding onto the branch in a desperate attempt to keep from falling off. Finally, she gets ahold of herself, only to adjust herself on the branch and resume acting like she hadn’t seen the princess at all. Ciri felt her irritation begin to mount again.

“If you’ve already collected the berries, then come down from there. You’ve wasted enough time as is,” Ciri says. “Come now. Your parents are worried about you, and you’ll need to have that leg tended to－,”

“I’m not going back.” Her tone is light, airy… but she’s certainly not laughing. Not anymore. Ciri thinks she feels her heart stop, “So go on. Take that back to the cabin. Take credit for gathering them, for all I care.”  _ I’ll be back when I know Da’ isn’t going to yell anymore. I don’t like it when he yells… _

“You’re being ridiculous.” The princess huffs, “You’ve only eaten a few berries, and you’re barefoot and  _ bleeding _ . At least throw your tantrum in the cabin, where it’s warm and you can eat something substantial.”

The corner of Hadria’s mouth twitches, “I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”

“You know that they’re only going to be more upset if they have to come out here after you, right?” Hadria flinches. She knows that Ciri is right－especially if Geralt has to track her down. He’s already really mad at her, she doesn’t want to risk somehow making it worse. 

She wonders, briefly, how far she could make it before Geralt sniffed her out… She’s faster than Ciri, stronger. By the time Ciri made it back to the cabin and told her parents where she was, she could be long gone. But… Wouldn’t they expect that? She drags her fingers along the rough bark of the elm tree, her heart clenching painfully at the thought of running away. 

She doesn’t want to leave, but…

She doesn’t want to stay where she’s not wanted, either.

_ Da’ never yelled before the little princess came along _ .

“I’m not going back.” She says again, her tone heavy with finality. She stretches herself out on the tree branch, allowing her heavy eyes to slip closed, “Enjoy your  _ special _ breakfast with your new family.” She spits, not in the least bit surprised when the princess  _ huffs _ and storms off without further fuss. 

The wind whips through the tree, each sweep like an icy knife dragged across her skin. Her last thought as she watches Ciri enter the back door of the cabin, berries and boots in tow, is that  _ she should’ve kept her godsdamned coat. _


	4. Runaway

Hadria doesn’t return until well into the afternoon. Her father hadn’t come to collect her, though she knew that he’d come out into the clearing every hour or so to check on her. He’d brought her a number of things－a small loaf of bread and an assortment of nuts and dried berries, the boots that she’d sent back with Ciri, the shawl that Jaskier had knitted for her－and set them at the base of the tree without a word. But she could tell, from the small smile that graced his lips whenever he returned to find one of the items missing, that this was his way of extending the olive branch… of offering peace.

She climbs back into the cabin through her bedroom window, not quite ready to face Jaskier after the stunt she’d pulled earlier. She finds Geralt sitting on her bed, and for a long, tense moment, they simply stare at one another in silence. Then Geralt beckons her forward with a crook of his finger and she’s tumbling into his arms, soaking the front of his shirt in her tears. He rubs her back in slow, even circles, humming softly as she chokes out something that sounds vaguely like an apology for their fight the night before. With his free hand, he begins to pick small twigs and leaves and rocks from her hair－Maker, Jaskier hadn’t been kidding when he’d said she was in desperate need of a bath－and thinks on what he wants to say to her. Gods, is it normally this hard to talk to a child?

He decides to buy himself some more time by shifting the little girl on his lap and setting to work on her horribly disheveled hair. Once he’s removed the various bits of debris, he grabs an ornate wooden h-comb from her vanity and starts gently detangling her long, chocolate brown locks. Hadria makes a small sound of surprise, but sits patiently, happy to bask in her father’s undivided attention after spending so much time apart. Geralt can’t help but notice how big she’s gotten. Is it normal for a child to grow so much in the span of one year? Well… technically Hadria isn’t a  _ normal _ child, and his experience with children in general is rather limited, but… He slips the tie from his own hair, using it to sweep Hadria’s hair back into a low ponytail. She looks so grown up, he can’t stand it.

“So,” he says, tapping her leg just a few centimeters above the scrape on her knee, “are you going to tell me what’s bothering you, or are we just going to continue to sit here in silence?” Silence. Then, “And since I’m confident I already know how you’re going to answer… just tell me what’s troubling you, little one.”

Hadria shifts in his arms, curling her little fingers around the silver chain around his neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Nothing is bothering me…” she trails off uneasily, tugging ever so lightly on his chain.

“Mmm…” he rests his chin atop her head, inhaling slowly, “Did I ever tell you about my very special, secret ability? I can sniff out a liar from almost a mile away. And you, little girl,” he sniffs dramatically, “have the scent.”

Hadria giggles, “Witchers can’t smell lies, Daddy.”

“Who said it was a mutation?” He asks, one eyebrow raised. “It’s actually a very, very special ability I received when  _ you _ came into our lives.” He says, bopping her nose lightly. “Some daddies have eyes in the back of their head, like your Da’, and some are like living lie detectors. There’s no point in trying to fool them－they know  _ all _ .”

His daughter seems to consider this for a moment, before she deflates, “I’m… I’m your baby, right?”

“Well, you’re a bit big as far as babies go…” Geralt muses softly, “but you are most definitely mine.”

Hadria lowers her eyes, “If you knew about…  _ Ciri _ … before you…” she gestures vaguely, and he thinks he understands where it is that she is trying to go, “You already had a daughter. You didn’t need me.”

“Hmm,” he makes a show of pondering her words, going back to playing with her hair as he had earlier. “You know… when I invoked the Law of Surprise… and when I made the wish of the djinn… I never expected to end up with kids. It’s not something I regret, but… it’s also not something I ever really knew that I wanted.”

The little one furrows her brows in confusion, “But I… I thought that I was your Child of Desire, the product of a very special wish to have a piece of Da’ with you forever.” She says.

“Djinns are… difficult creatures. Just because you wish for something doesn’t necessarily mean that it will come true in the way that you’re expecting.” He says. “I  _ did _ wish to have a piece of Jaskier with me forever. But that wish could have come true in any number of ways. I hadn’t even begun to contemplate all of the possibilities, I just knew that I had come so very close to losing him. And then…”

“And then you had me.” Hadria supplies helpfully.

“Mhmm,” he nods. Then, “Just because I didn’t explicitly wish for a child does not mean that you’re not everything I could have ever wanted. It just means you were… a bit of an unexpected surprise.”

Hadria flinches at the word ‘surprise’. “So how did you end up with…  _ Ciri _ ?”

He sighs. What could be the harm in telling her the full story? After all, withholding information from her was what had gotten him into this predicament in the first place. It’s… not a particularly fond memory, in part because of the fact that it is so closely intertwined with the disastrous dragon hunt. Hadria listens attentively, her features schooled into a stony mask. He’s not the best at deciphering emotions in ordinary humans－children, especially those with so many mutations, were an absolute anomaly to him. He supposes that he should count himself lucky that she isn’t throwing another fit, though he can tell from the was she fidgets, so very tense in his arms, that a full-blown tantrum is never too far off. When he reaches the part where Pavetta started screaming, she finally interjects with－

“So… what you’re saying is that it’s Da’s fault that she’s here.” She says, a surprising amount of venom seeping into her tone. Geralt lets out a long-suffering sigh－he’s not surprised that she came to that conclusion, considering that that’s how he had felt once upon a time, but..

“Don’t say that so loud.” He says, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes, I was there attending the banquet because he needed me to act as a bodyguard, but  _ I _ was the one who invoked the Law of Surprise.”

Hadria pouts, “It’s almost like you want me to be upset with you.”

Geralt’s mouth twists in something akin to a grimace, “I don’t want you to be upset with anyone. But if it’ll make you feel better to have someone to blame, then blame me. None of this was your Da’s fault, okay?”

Hadria sniffles, her big, golden eyes wet with tears. Fuck, he really hopes that she doesn’t start crying again. “So did you… did you ever actually  _ want _ to have children?” Even the Witcher can sense the danger lurking behind such a seemingly innocent question. 

He bites his lip, considering. “A long time ago, I was content to say that I needed no-one, and was happy that no-one needed me.” Hadria cocks her head to the side, brown hair spilling over her shoulder. “But I’ll let you in on a little secret, Witcher to mini-Witcher.”  _ That _ earns him a bright little giggle, “You’re not too bad, kid.”

She rolls her eyes, “Pfft. Thanks, Daddy. I really feel the love.”

“Good.” He snorts, “Don’t let it go to your head, now.” He slides her off of his lap, warning, “Now, in about thirty seconds, your Da’ is going to come in here, crying about yelling at you earlier. And you’re going to be nice.”

“Hmm,” she doesn’t seem too terribly convinced. Geralt frowns.

“Come on. I’m not asking you to take Ciri’s hand and run off into the sunset. I’m asking you to be nice to your father for two lousy seconds－,” he suddenly stops speaking because, right on schedule, Jaskier bursts into the room, thrusting the door open with such force it actually startles Hadria so badly she tumbles off Geralt’s lap.

But that’s okay, because before she can even realize she’s falling, Jaskier has her bundled tight in his arms. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I never should have… I didn’t mean to yell at you like that, I just…”

Hadria looks to Geralt for help, a little desperate. The Witcher sighs, “She does need to breathe, Jaskier.”

The bard’s grip loosens almost immediately, but he doesn’t stop lavishing the little girl in affection. Within seconds, her entire face is  _ covered _ in kisses, much to her chagrin. When he draws back far enough to take a good look at her, Jaskier is turning her around and around, checking for even the slightest of injuries. When he notices the cut on her knee, he makes a noise like a wounded animal and begins shooing Geralt off of the child’s bed to make room for her to sit down. Geralt rolls his eyes－even with his limited knowledge regarding children, he knows that scraped knees are normal. This is hardly on par with the time she cracked her skull open at Kaer Morhen, and even that hadn’t been the end of the world. 

Jaskier tends to her leg with the same care with which he treated his Witcher’s wounds… which meant tea tree oil and screaming. Hadria may’ve been half-Witcher, but as Jaskier liked to so often remind him, she’s still a child and her pain tolerance… well, it seems to fluctuate. There are those times, like the incident at Kaer Morhen, where she’s injured rather severely and doesn’t feel a thing until hours… sometimes even  _ days _ later. Other times, like that fateful summer she broke her leg, she’d be wracked with such pain she’d be unable to sleep. And, to be fair, antiseptic always hurt like a bitch. Jaskier proceeds to smother her in even more kisses, tears of an entirely different sort brewing in his eyes, seeing his little one in such pain and knowing that he’s the cause.

“T-There.” He bandages her knee and plants the biggest, wettest kiss of all directly overtop her kneecap. “Kisses make everything better, right?” She nods, swinging her knee back and forth a bit to test how tightly the bandage is wrapped. It stays firmly in place, despite the odd location. 

“There’s food left over from this morning.” Geralt says. It’s his way of extending another peace offering, though not in so many words. Hadria cocks her head to the side, considering.

“M’kay.” She says after a little while. “I want to change my leggings first, though. These are… effectively ruined.” She pinched the material between her fingers, examining the massive hole overtop of her knee. That sort of thing wouldn’t ordinarily bother her, but she  _ liked _ these leggings, and was kind of sad to have to see them go.

Jaskier looks at them curiously, “Leave them on our bed, okay? I’ll see if there isn’t something I can do to patch them.” Probably not, but… it certainly couldn’t hurt to try.

She nods, “Okay.” Geralt and Jaskier both press a kiss to the crown of her head, before departing. “I’ll be down before you can miss me!” She shut the door, listening carefully to their retreating footsteps.  _ Perfect. _

* * *

This is an absolutely horrible idea, but that isn’t about to stop her. She drops her ruined leggings on her parents’ bed, before bending down to reach beneath the bedframe for…  _ there _ . The dozens of glass vials in Geralt’s satchel clinked together as she dragged the leather bag out from underneath the bed, careful to be as quiet as possible. She isn’t sure where Geralt is, or how much time she has before either of her fathers come searching for her, so she needs to make this fast. While she’s familiar with a number of these potions, there are a few rolling around in the bottom of the bag that she isn’t quite sure about. She knows that she’ll have to be careful－these potions are extremely lethal to humans, though she’s been able to handle a select few, after they’d been heavily watered down. 

If she was going to leave, then she needed to be prepared. It’s unlikely that her Daddy would be taking any contracts anytime soon, so he wouldn’t be needing his potions－he wouldn’t notice that they were gone until it was too late to do anything about it. Her eyes nervously flit toward the door－that is, of course, provided that she can get them out of the room without arousing his suspicion. She doesn’t like the idea of stealing from him, but the idea of heading out into the world unprepared is even more unsettling. She’s heard stories from her Daddy about some of the monsters he’s faced, and she doesn’t think she’d stand a chance against even  _ half _ of them… so it certainly can’t hurt to stock up on a few potions that would give her a bit of a speed-boost, to help with that last minute get away…

Health potions are a must… and she might as well take some black blood too－it’s better to have it and not need it than… well, she doesn’t really want to think of the alternative, because of all of the monsters her Daddy has told her about, vampires seriously skeeve her and the thought of being  _ bitten _ by one is… most unappealing. Hell, the thought of being bitten by  _ anything _ makes her skin crawl. She pauses, twisting the vial of dark liquid so that she can better examine it by the dim, flickering lantern light. This is… a dangerous plan. And admittedly, she could have spent more time thinking it through. But if she sits around waiting much longer, she’ll lose her nerve and… Quickly, she stuffs the necessary vials into her bag, taking care to be as quiet as possible. 

“What are you doing?” Hadria’s heart leaps into her throat, and she almost drops the half-filled bag in her haste to hide the evidence of her transgressions. But then she realizes… she  _ knows _ that voice. It’s  _ Ciri _ .

“Nothing that concerns you.” Hadria says stiffly. She silently prays that the other girl doesn’t know what she’s holding in her hands, because she knows that there is absolutely zero chance that she’s not going to run and tell Jaskier and Geralt exactly what she’d seen.

“It looks like you’re trying to sneak potions from Geralt.” Ciri says, her tone matter-of-fact. Hadria goes very still, her mouth twisting into the beginnings of a frown. “Seriously? Haven’t you caused enough trouble today? I haven’t known him for very long, I’ll admit, but in the day and a half I’ve been here you’ve caused that man nothing but stress. He’s been worried about you all day－,”

Hadria frowns, her grip on the bag tightening. She knows that she’s an annoyance, a  _ hassle _ . She’s trying to  _ fix _ that－her new ‘sister’ didn’t need to be cruel and throw it back in her face. “Shut up.”

“And that, there! I haven’t done anything to you, and every other word out of your mouth is something cruel and belittling! The last few days have been actual  _ hell _ for me, and you continuously go out of your way to make my life more difficult!” Ciri isn’t sure when she started yelling, but she can feel heat rising in her cheeks as her throat burns and tears stream from her eyes.

It makes Hadria feel small, vulnerable. She doesn’t like it. “You haven’t done anything to me?” She hisses, “Everything… All of this… It’s  _ your _ fault that I want to leave!” 

“...I’m not the one who invoked the Law of Surprise.” Ciri says, her voice cracking. She feels so  _ tired _ all of a sudden… but she can’t, won’t let this go. Hadria’s been on her case ever since the forest, when she’d tried to  _ kill _ her. And Ciri is tired of letting this girl walk all over her.

“No, but you  _ are _ the result of it, and that’s good enough for me.” Hadria climbs to her feet, tossing the bag over her shoulder and shoving past Ciri to head toward the door. Ciri grabs her shoulder, exerting a surprising amount of force to spin her back around to face her－they’re not done here. 

“So you’re incapable of finding fault with your father,” Ciri says, standing firm even as Hadria yanks out of her hold. “Is that what you’re saying? That someone else has to be the scapegoat, because he can do no wrong?”

“He never intended to  _ keep _ you.” Hadria sneers, “He was going to return you after the war passed. But your grandmother had to be stupidly stubborn and get her entire kingdom  _ razed to the bloody ground _ －,”

The resounding  _ slap _ echoes through the room long before Ciri realizes that she even moved… The palm of her hand  _ burns _ , but the entire left side of Hadria’s face is blooming a violent  _ red _ as her tender skin begins to swell. Seconds pass in awkward, uncomfortable silence, before Hadria turns to spit out a mouthful of blood, something like a whimper rising in her throat as hot tears burn behind her eyes. Don’t cry.  _ Don’t cry. Don’t. Cry. _ Her hands clench and unclench at her sides, her short nails leaving deep, half-crescent impressions on the tender skin of her palms. The pain radiating from her swollen cheek seems to increase by the moment, and Ciri looks like she’s being forced to swallow nails as she beholds the damage she caused. 

She spits out another mouthful of blood－fuck, to add insult to injury, she thinks she might’ve bitten her tongue somewhere along the line－before mumbling, “But don’t worry,  _ your highness _ . I’ll be out of your hair by nightfall, and then you can have the happily ever after you’ve always wanted.” 

Ciri’s wide, teary blue eyes flit from her aching hand to Hadria’s bruised face, “Running away never solved anyone’s problems…”

Hadria adjusts the bag on her shoulder, “It gets me away from you, doesn’t it?” And anything else that Ciri might’ve said is drowned out by the sound of her bedroom door slamming closed one last time.


	5. Tales From the Mountain

Ciri stands in the middle of Geralt and Jaskier’s bedroom, tear-filled eyes focused on the door like staring at it long enough will make Hadria come back. But as the minutes tick by, it becomes increasingly more apparent that Hadria isn’t coming back－and she really needs to  _ tell _ someone about the fact that she’s made off with at least half a dozen of Geralt’s potions. 

She doesn’t think that Hadria is running away, not at first. Not even with a bag full of near-lethal potions on her person. It’s entirely possible that she just needs to find a place where she can be away from Ciri, at least for a little while. Ciri could acknowledge that she likely hadn’t made the situation between them any better by slapping Hadria, but… Where did she get off, talking ill of her grandmother like that? Calanthe had made some poor decisions, sure, but everything she’d done had been to try and protect Ciri. She’d given everything, including her life, to make sure that Ciri could make it this far. And Ciri wasn’t about to stand by and let some spoiled brat trample on her memory.

She hears a creaking by the door, and she’s not sure why… but she kicks the satchel of potions back under the bed before it can be seen. “Is everything alright in here, sweetheart? I thought I heard yelling.”

“Jaskier…” She should say something,  _ anything _ . The words linger on the tip of her tongue… but in the end, all she can force out is, “I, um… just had a bit of a row with Hadria. Nothing too serious.” 

Jaskier looks at her curiously, before nodding. “I know she can be a bit…  _ much _ sometimes, but… You know what? How about a story?” He takes a seat on the side of the bed, motioning for Ciri to join him. “I assume that your grandmother told you about  _ all of this _ .” He gestures vaguely to Geralt’s armor, laid out in the corner of the room.

“...A little, yes. There wasn’t exactly much time before－,” she sits down beside him, awkwardly playing with the fraying hem of her sleeve. She’s not sure where this is going, but talking about her grandmother  _ hurts _ more than she can say. She still doesn’t have the words to process what happened, and wonders if she ever will.

“Hmm,” Jaskier hums thoughtfully, then, “Did you know that Witchers cannot have children?”

Ciri nods slowly, “I’d… heard rumors.” She had, admittedly, thought it a little odd that Hadria was… well, so  _ Witcher _ -like. She’d assumed that she’d been adopted, or was biologically Jaskier’s, or…

“I know what you’re thinking.” He grins, “Hadria  _ is _ Geralt’s daughter, I assure you. If the stunning physical resemblance isn’t enough, try holding an actual conversation with either of them and you’ll see soon enough.”

“...Why does she hate me?” Ciri asks, her voice so soft that Jaskier almost doesn’t hear.

He is silent for a long moment, before he shakes his head, “I don’t think that’s right. I think she feels threatened by you because of who, and more importantly－ _ what _ －you are to Geralt.” 

Ciri frowns, “I’m afraid that I don’t follow.” 

Jaskier gently ruffles her hair, “I promised you a story, didn’t I?”

***

“...that absolute cocksucking whoreson… to think, after all this time… after a bloody  _ child _ －,” Jaskier turns to where Hadria  _ should _ have been, just a few paces behind on his left side. His daughter is gone. “H-Hadria?  _ Hadria _ !”

A second later, he hears a weak, panicked exclamation of “Da’!” coming from… oh holy mother of the gods, is that…? He hadn’t realized how close they were to the side of the mountain.

Hadria had fallen  _ at least _ fifteen feet, and from the awkward way her leg is twisted it is clear that it is not so much broken as it is shattered. But his daughter’s broken limb is the least of his concerns at the moment, because  _ something _ just roared and her panicked screams can be heard clear across the mountain. How had she even fallen? He knew that she had a tendency to be a bit clumsy, but… and that’s when he sees the injured dwarf alongside her. Had she tried to help him, only to lose her balance? How could he have  _ missed _ all of that? And why the hell hadn’t she just told him that someone needed help, instead of running off on her own?

His first instinct is to call for Geralt, but he  _ can’t _ . Because Geralt had made sure that they both knew, in no uncertain terms, that they were no longer welcome. That he’d never wanted a child, a  _ family _ －and he didn’t understand why the godsdamned djinn had seen fit to curse him with one. Jaskier had been too stunned to say anything at the time, but Hadria had been absolutely  _ devastated _ . She’d told Jaskier in a tiny little voice that she wanted to go  _ home _ and he’d agreed without thinking, not really knowing where  _ home _ was now that Geralt had effectively disowned them. And now… gods, what in all the hells is he supposed to do now?

Another scream… He can’t see all that clearly, but it seems as though the dwarf has just been mauled by the bear. Jaskier is too far away. Jumping is just an all-around bad idea, but any other route will take too long. Another scream… He doesn’t even register that he’s calling Geralt’s name until the bear is dead and a pale figure clad in dark leather is hoisting the injured child into the air. Jaskier has to support himself on the nearest tree as he suddenly and violently loses a battle with his stomach… and even then, he ends up collapsing to his knees, his pale skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat as his mind torments him with one-thousand and one what-ifs. 

It takes forever for Geralt to find him, but that’s okay, because Hadria is alive and that’s all that matters. But as soon as he sees her, his stomach starts doing flip-flops again, “W-What happened to her  _ head _ ?”

“I presume that she hit it on a rock.” Geralt says, his voice soft. “It looks worse than it actually is.”

“That’s really not comforting, considering it looks absolutely  _ horrific _ －,”

Geralt lays her out on the ground, propping her back up against the nearest tree. “Your water skin, Jaskier.” He holds out his hand expectantly, and after a moment, the bard hands it over. He wrestles with several potion bottles, mixing a concoction that looks rather like tar. 

“...can she even drink that?” Hadn’t Geralt always prattled on about the lethality of Witcher potions? Sure, Hadria is half-Witcher, but this seems like a rather poor method of testing which half of her nature is dominant.

“She’ll be fine.” He answers flatly, pulling the cork stopper from the water skin with his teeth. “...Probably.”

“ _ Probably _ ?” Jaskier squeaks－oh  _ hell _ no, there’s no way that they’re going to do this if her odds are  _ probable _ at best.

Geralt turns to him, his expression flat. “Would you rather she die?”

“What in the name of－Where the hell do you get off, asking me a question like that? Of  _ course _ that’s not what I want!” Jaskier isn’t sure when he started yelling, but he’s certainly yelling now, and while he was distracted with his ire, Geralt had taken the opportunity to force the make-shift potion water down Hadria’s throat. 

They make camp in awkward silence, neither knowing how to broach the topic of their earlier fight. Though he’d known all along that Geralt couldn’t have meant all those things he said about Hadria, it still amazes him how tenderly he nurses her wounds (aside from setting her leg－that horror will live with him for the rest of his days). He is as he has always been with her－soft, gentle,  _ loving _ . Having Hadria allows him to see a side of the Witcher that the older man so desperately tried to hide away: the little boy whose heart had been broken by a mother who’d abandoned him on the side of the road. 

Geralt feared fatherhood because he had no role models to emulate. His mother… His memories of her are fragmented and have become distorted over time. He can’t trust that he remembers her properly (at least, anything other than the fateful day she left him on Vesemir’s doorstep－because how could a child ever forget being abandoned by its parent?) He and Hadria are so much alike that they struggle, at times, to get along… and he believes this to be a failure on his part, rather than the natural course of things. Jaskier wishes that there were some way to convince him otherwise, but he thinks that this is a realization Geralt must come to himself. 

“...I’m sorry.” Geralt says, at long last. “I never should have said those things to you… to her…” He tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear with a trembling hand, “Gods, when I heard you scream like that, I thought she was…”

“I thought she was going to.” Jaskier whispers, swallowing hard. “And I… I couldn’t do a damned thing about it. I was too far away. Melitele’s tits, I didn’t even know that she’d  _ fallen _ ! I’m a horrible father－,”

Geralt shakes his head, raising a hand to tentatively touch Jaskier’s lightly stubbled cheek. His touch grew a hair more confident when the bard didn’t immediately shove his hand away. “You’re not. You’re an amazing father. You raised a beautiful little girl who’d recklessly throw herself into harms’ way to protect a stranger.”

Jaskier laughs, feeling as though he’s on the brink of tears. “Remind me how that’s a good thing again?”

Geralt looks at him as if he’s missing some crucial piece of the puzzle, “Because that makes her like  _ you _ . And that means it’s just one more way that the djinn gave me everything I could have wanted.”

“Ahh, I see. So you weren’t satisfied having  _ one _ walking disaster trailing behind you across the Continent, you needed  _ two _ .” Because seriously, Jaskier attracts enough danger to last them both several lifetimes. They don’t need their child sliding off of the edge of an embankment and almost ending up as a hangry brown bear’s dinner. 

Geralt rolls his eyes, “I’d like to start training her. Seriously. With your permission.”

Jaskier’s heart leaps into his throat, and he’s just about to answer when Hadria starts to stir in his arms, “D-Da’? Daddy? What… What happened?” Hazy golden eyes blink open, flickering across the mountain, a touch panicked. “Where are we?”

***

“You know… it was almost losing Hadria on the mountain that gave him the kick in the pants to go and find you.” Jaskier says with a small smile. “But back to your question. No, Hadria doesn’t hate you. She hates that you’re taking her father’s attention, and have been taking it for almost a year now.”

Ciri frowns, “But that isn’t my fault.”

A nod, “I know that, darling. And on some level, she does too. But I need you to understand why Hadria is the way that she is… Why she clings so strongly to Geralt, and his rare displays of affection.” He sighs, “She doesn’t actually remember the mountain. The dragon hunt. The fight. All of it is just…  _ gone _ .”

“It’s called post-traumatic retrograde amnesia.” Ciri jumps a little－when had Geralt joined them? “She’s lost about eight days total, from what the healer was able to gather. Just enough to be terribly confused as to why her parents were suddenly being all affectionate, and to decide that she liked it. And it just… became the new normal.”

“Until yesterday.” Gods, was that  _ just _ yesterday when she finally found Geralt and this whole mess started?

“Until yesterday.” Geralt confirms, then, “Speaking of the little brat, any idea where she ran of to? If she doesn’t eat soon, she’ll make herself sick…”

Ciri flinches, lowering her eyes to where her hands are folded neatly in her lap. She should tell. She  _ needs _ to tell. It’s amazing that Hadria’s managed to go this long without arousing their suspicion, but… Ciri is starting to think that she knew that her fathers would start out by talking with Ciri after all. Ciri’s obvious distress would be just enough of a distraction for her to make her exit. She probably hadn’t made it far, but if she employed some of the same tricks that she’d used on Ciri in the forest outside of their cabin, she’d likely be able to keep them off of her trail－at least for a little while. She needs to say something.  _ She needs to say something. _

She knows this… and yet the words won’t come out. She looks between the two of them, desperate for one of the men to be able to read the panic and distress on her face and understand what it is that she is trying to say. She needs someone to read between the lines. But they both continue to stare at her blankly, waiting for her to spell it out. Well, fuck. Briefly, she entertains the idea of unearthing the bag underneath the bed and showing Geralt that a multitude of potions were missing, but she brushes the thought aside. At least now she knows that the potions, when properly diluted, won’t be lethal to Hadria－so that doesn’t seem as important to mention right now.

And so she lowers her eyes, twiddles her thumbs, and mumbles, “I think… I think she went to her－our－room.”

* * *

**MEANWHILE**

“Stupid. Stupid! _ Stupid _ !” Hadria hisses as she tears up her third attempt at a letter to her parents. She doesn’t have time to be a perfectionist－it won’t be long before Ciri wises up and sends them off in her direction. She grabs a piece of sheet music, flips it over, and begins to write…

_ Da’ & Daddy ~ _

_ I’m sorry that I had to ruin a perfectly good piece of sheet music to write this out, Da’. I know how hard you worked to copy this for me… Maybe one day, when I return, I’ll copy it fresh for you.  _

_ I… concede. I don’t know what it is about Ciri that makes her so special, but ever since she’s arrived all I’ve done is cause you two stress and pain. How was I supposed to know that Ciri didn’t hurt Daddy? He was wounded _ － _ badly _ － _ and she was the only one around for another two and a half miles! How was I supposed to react when Daddy told me that he almost died to bring back this Child Surprise who makes me feel yucky inside just for wanting time with my Daddy? _

_ She hit me, and I _ －

This part is scratched out with heavy black lines, making it all but impossible to read what is underneath. She contemplates grabbing a fresh piece of sheet music, but there isn’t time. She doesn’t want to talk about the slap, even though her face still aches and she can still taste the coppery tang of blood on her tongue. She doesn’t want to make her parents upset, knows that odds are that they’ll be upset with her (she knows that she pushed too hard, but dammit, Ciri started it－Ciri was the one who sliced open the wound and held her down to rub salt in it… She’s already trying to make things better. She’s  _ trying _ to leave). And so she continues…

_ I’m going to go away for awhile. I don’t really know where. I’m… I don’t want to hurt you two. I think that this is the only way that I can do this now. You can focus on protecting Ciri, because you trained me well enough to be able to take care of myself. It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay now. I just want you to be happy… And I want to be happy too. I don’t like feeling yucky. I don’t like feeling like I’m bad. I… _

_ I love you both. _

_ Hadria _

She sets the note on her bed, right alongside one of her favorite stuffed dolls, knowing that one of her parents is certain to find it. She can hear her Daddy talking now－she’s out of time. She slings the backpack over her shoulder, trying to make the least amount of noise as possible. Her crossbow and bolts are over in the corner, and she slings them over her opposite shoulder. There’s so much more than she wishes she had time to grab, including a spare change of clothes, but she can’t risk it. Quickly, she shuffles over to the window, climbing outside of the cabin and dropping down the nine or so feet to the ground. 

The sudden drop makes her leg ache, but she ignores the pain, pushing herself to start  _ running _ . Her vision grows blurry with tears－she doesn’t even know when she started crying, but she can’t seem to force herself to stop. Her chest hurts, but she can’t stop. Her Daddy is like a godsdamned bloodhound; if she doesn’t make herself scarce, and fast, he’ll track her down within the hour. That is, of course, assuming that he’d come after her at all. She likes to think that he would, but… That would just cause him more stress, and she doesn’t want that. She wants him－ _ them _ －to be happy without her, to move on and forget about her. 

She moves as quickly as possible, dropping some non-necessary items along the way to buy her a few extra minutes. She doesn’t want to abandon her Daddy’s hair tie, but she does, leaving it twisted around a few low hanging branches. A little while later, she takes her jeweled dagger and starts hacking away at her hair, bit by bit. It won’t buy her much time (the odds of Geralt not discovering that she’s actively trying to throw him off of her trail at this point are slim to none, but she can try), but she sprinkles the chopped strands around liberally, regardless. She’s been in the forest, alone, many times. The landscape is etched into her mind. 

Her senses may not be as sharp as Geralt’s, but if she uses her head, she should be able to make it out in one piece… without attracting any unsavory attention along the way. 


End file.
